


Sunlight

by arcaneplume



Category: MapleStory
Genre: :), Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Possibly angst, he's in limbo and slowly losing his memories, took some liberties because I wanted to hurt myself more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24270340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcaneplume/pseuds/arcaneplume
Summary: Perfumes and scents of faraway seasons, born from generous soil and grateful roots.The silence of a greenhouse in the middle of nowhere.With every gesture and shifting of tools, his heart grows heavy with the foreboding weight of a fate long sealed.
Kudos: 3





	Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rather old fic I wrote at least one year ago. I am unsure of the date, but I still retrodated it with a rough estimation. I believe I've improved since then, but I've grown fond of this little experiment, despite my frustrations writing it back in the day.

Morning water softly pouring down fresh petals, tender blooms doused in light, seeping into vision like a mirage. Worn out hands carefully cusping verdant buds, too young for colours, observing their growth.

No matter how much time passed; he would never get used to this silence, this quiet and needless toil.

He resented that place, at first. He remembered when he used to tear those plants apart, tearing the entire greenhouse down, sorrowful soil and shattered pottery strewn around in pain. He would then run, as far as he possibly could, through the bleak, featureless landscape, scrambling for a way out - but despite all his struggle, he would always come back to that silent, humid, lonely refuge.

As he gently nipped some of the tarnished foliage away, he tried tracing backwards through his memories. Reminiscing was the only thing that could help him keep his mind focused on the present, on himself. He had to, for every time he let his senses drown in his repetitive, sluggish work, he could feel his sense of self slip away. He would blank out, and before he could notice, he had already potted a whole new row of plants and rearranged the entire stock.

This single fact was the very thing that prevented him from trusting that place.

It was something he could not fully understand, and yet filled him with dread, as ridiculous as it sounded. Why should he even be nervous about a bunch of plants?! And yet, he could not stop thinking there was something more to this. Something he was not ready to accept, perhaps.

He scoffed at himself. There we go again. Can't even think straight in this shithole, as it happens. What was he thinking about?  
  
Ah, yes. He was trying to remember him. His brother.

It was the last thing he saw. His expression was stern, gritting teeth and piercing gaze, shadows flickering from the broken sky. Eyes reddening with unshed tears. My dear brother... I'm sorry. I know you're strong. I know you'll make it without me. But I broke your heart, and I can't fully forgive myself.

How I despised you, dear brother. The coward who vanished without a trace. You never came back; I thought you abandoned me. But even then, the one I hated the most was myself. My weakness. A demon shouldn't be this weak. I could have fended off by myself, if I had more power. I could have protected you. I could have protected her...

But what's done is done, isn't it? What ifs never helped anyone.

He looked at his own hands, covered in dirt he did not remember moving. He apparently gave new homes to a couple greens without noticing. Again.

His hands, now filled with power, grasping a heinous sword swelling with age-old torment. Kill them, they screamed at him. Tear them apart with claw and fang, they begged. Feeling that did not belong to him tainted his own anger with the darkest hues. Hate, hate, hate – the bleeding fury of the oppressed, the hateful shrieks of the butchers, both of them filled with despairing, hungry terror. The fear of falling apart, of becoming the prey. The fear of the end that drags people into a maddening race for survival. The weight of countless souls, a weight he placed on his own shoulders willingly.

He could still recall the coldness of metal, the burning magic coursing through his body, the carnage and the ecstasy of battle. How deeply he could lose himself to it. He could even forget about the past, at times. Tyrenum...

He almost made the pot crash. If there was something he would rather not remember, it was his time there. No need to dwell on that. It was so far away – incredibly so, to the point of trembling into empty greyness – but it still hurt. The wounds of the soul never heal, after all.

Running his fingers on his eyes, he took a breath. He sat at the only worktable that was not overflowing with lush vegetation, and picked up a crudely carved wooden statue, small in size, clearly etched with more passion than technique. Truly a sad attempt, but better than nothing. He wouldn't be able to see him anymore. If only he could remember their mother that clearly...

That was his only regret. Losing his earliest memories to his darkest days.

He absentmindedly brought his hand to his neck, tentatively grasping for his scarf, trying to remember the day he received it. The warmth he felt, the joy and love. A strong yet kind hand, stroking his hair. A joyful, spontaneous laugh. The smell of fresh fabric wafting through his nose, as he ran into the gelid air waiting for him outside, eager to enjoy the brisk morning air. A worried voice calling out, footstep in the snow. Laughter muffled in play.

Such a bright memory. So bright it blinded him to almost anything else. So heartachingly far, and yet so incredibly close.

He could not remember any further than that, after all. He only had the knowledge his childhood was happy and fulfilled. An innocence he can never hope to remember, not in his current state. Perhaps it was meant to be lost forever.

He gently put the statue in its proper place, and rose back up. He walked towards one of the cloudy white walls of the greenhouse, eternal sunlight weaving through. He knew where he was. Didn't think he'd get something this weirdly, menacingly comforting.

There was no way out. There was no future.

But so ended the struggle, the pain, the shame. No past to save, no future to ruin.

Perhaps it was better like that.


End file.
